Thursday, October 28, 2010

There I was. Standing in the bathroom of a little restaurant called 'Breakfast Club' in Mammoth Lakes, California, relieving myself while staring at a clever bit of graffiti on the toilet paper dispenser. It said 'Cruz Control', but spelled in such a way that the 'cruise' part was written like someone's last name rather than the feature found in most cars.

Graffiti in public restrooms is one of those things I've tried to wrap my head around for some time now. I mean, as cool as it is to chisel nonsensical symbols and misspelt words on toilet seats, mirrors, toilet paper dispensers and trash cans, I don't quite understand the allure. Maybe I just need to embrace the subculture.

Maybe I could be a leader among them. I could start an underground public toilet graffiti gang and call myself Muad' Dib. Then we could ransack whole towns, pillaging and defacing all of their public restrooms, wreaking untold havoc and creating fear and panic among the citizenry.

Soon they will all fear Cruz Control.

Muahahaha.

Why not?

Sometimes this is the best way to talk to your parents.

Agreed, but bad punctuation.

Did I "borrow" this picture from Flickr? Yes. Is it worth it even with that annoying line though it? Absolutely.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Start an offshore bank account in the Caymans. Write a book about an Amazonian river dolphin named Tim. Start a circus of flying squirrels and train them to steal people's wallets while one is jumping through a flaming soda can hanging from a birdcage.

The possibilities are limitless.

For instance. Let's say you write a blog. It's past 1am, and you think to yourself, "Self, you are indeed thinking to me, and you should write a blog about this genius idea you just had." Then, instead of writing about that genius idea, you write about having genius ideas after 1am and chalk it up as some misguided attempt to inspire the masses. Good work self.

Here are some more successful ideas:

Bringing your pet monster on your road trip of the UK.

Telling Coco he was adopted, and that you were the one who farted.

Poorly photoshopping tea pots on Mr. T photos and then calling him to gloat.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

We live in a world of extremes. Extreme temperatures, extreme politics, and of course, extreme sports. But there is a way to become part of the extreme fun without going inside a volcano, fomenting an insurrection, or doing a 1080 on a riding lawnmower while jumping a tank of alligators.

How?

Extreme texting.

Not to be confused with extreme ironing.

No, I don't mean texting from your car while driving on the interstate (not extreme, just dumb). Neither do I mean sending texts from outer space. No. If you want to be an extreme texter you have to think outside of the box. Beyond 160 characters. Beyond human. For instance, let's say you wanted to involve space travel while texting. Well, no one cares if you send a text from space, but if you send a monkey or an overweight orangutan to text from the moon, that is extreme.

Becoming a zombie, and then texting is not extreme, especially if you work at Best Buy.

The possibilities don't end there though. You could also text from inside the belly of a shark. How? Figure it out. This is not rocket surgery. You could also text while doing a contortionist stunt while being launched out a torpedo tube on a submarine. And if that doesn't float your boat, then create the world's largest cruise ship/cell phone (ie: a cell phone that is also a cruise ship or vice versa) then become a jet pilot and launch missles at the keypad so that it sends a message to your grandma in Pocatello.

Texting while squatting on a manhole cover and eating icecream is pretty extreme (especially once the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles jump out and surprise her with some pizza)

Sunday, October 3, 2010

The world is changing. And sometimes, it changes in leaps and bounds rather than incremental ticks and tocks.

A prime example is that of our mutual friend "Ichabod." Well, let's call him Ichabod anyway.

There are certain thresholds that many of the male gender promise to themselves never to cross. But then either curiosity or a woman beguiles them to eschew their otherwise rock-hard principles.

Such was the case with Ichabod the other night. His first foray into this unknown world was when he was reassured and even beguiled by attractive women to buy "skinny" jeans. Sure, they were labeled "slim" jeans, but he knew what this was all about. He entered the fitting room a curious man, and left a redefined beast of modernity. Some might just call him a metro.

The skinny jeans fit by the way and didn't even look skinny. Or maybe he was just equivocating to make himself feel better about his dwindling masculinity. But the jeans were just the beginning.

Later that evening while flipping through the channels he saw a title he had sworn to never read, watch, or even do anything to except ridicule as often as possible: Twilight. He flipped to Twilight and then quickly back to some show called "The World's Most Haunted Places," so that he could click the 'recall' button, promising himself an avenue of escape if the movie turned out to suck as much as he had been led to believe.

He watched the whole thing. And while it was at times mind-numbing, and terribly absurd, the stinging rebuke that stayed with him was that he didn't hate it. What had happened to this man Ichabod? Was he still a man? Or had he morphed into a self-loathing, shiny vampire promoting, ball of sexual ambiguity?

Who knows?

But what thing we can be certain of is that he purchased skinny jeans, watched Twilight, and then didn't hate it.Step 1 - Ichabod wears questionable "skinny jeans."

Friday, October 1, 2010

(This is the world's largest meatball. It is relevant to this article because it looks like a tumor and the guy who made it seems pretty happy about it)

I'm pretty sure the internet has latched itself onto my brain. It has done so incrementally, and what seemed like a symbiotic relationship may have become a parasitic one: a tumor. However, it's hard to say which is the tumor, the internet or me. Fortunately there is Arnold Schwarzenegger's famous line from "Kindergarten Cop" that reassures me, "It's not a tumor." If only I could pretend and be that little kid who hangs out with the ferret and brings his toy to the carpet.

But this little boy may never make it back to the carpet. He has found far too many toys and cannot decide (And, he also seems to have continued to speak of himself in third person for far too long). Really. I am writing this revelatory blog entry after 1:00AM.

Some of you might come to my defense and say, "Aw that's nothing man, you're fine. I stay up until 3 or 4AM." Others of you might be appalled. Others of you stopped reading a while ago due to the fact that you don't stay up this late, or just have short attention spans.

Well, I tell myself all the time that I'm going to go to bed earlier EVERY night. And, every night I always find some movie to watch, article to read, friend to chat to, place to go, etc. to etc. Tonight really is no different. Sure I could blame it on the fact that often times my shifts end at 9PM or even close to 11PM or beyond and I still have to make time for exercise. Then I have to clean myself up, eat, veg out, and/or pretend to have a life beyond work.

But I don't have to do anything. I just do.

I also tell myself things would be different if I were married and had a job with normal hours. Maybe so. But who's to say? Maybe I'm just caught up in being caught up for no reason other than a subconscious curiosity or at least some sort of deeply rooted dissatisfaction with the present moment. Or maybe I just want to prolong the moment and live each waking hour as long as possible.

Well that last idea cannot be. I tend to sleep in when I can. But even that's a precarious assumption. Often when I think I get to sleep in I get woken up after being in bed a mere 3 or 4 hours, and then have to pretend like it was 8, and trying to get back to bed is never the same. The dreams, the REM, the beautiful tapestry of synthetic subconscious reverie sifts like sand through my finger tips.

What is the solution? Probably eating more, staring more out the window, and watching Judge Judy reruns. Yeah.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

I was reading a magazine the other day when I came across a word that I found amusing. Well, it wasn't so much the word, but rather the somewhat interesting use of the word put together with my understanding of the author's intentions through the cynical prism that I sometimes call a brain.

The word was 'detritus' or in other words: debris, odds and ends, decaying or disintegrating stuff, AKA: trash.

The reason I was amused was because here was a writer describing something seemingly valueless in order to ascribe some sort of literary value to himself. It's like when anyone uses the word 'esoteric'; the word is self-fulfilling. Esoteric is esoteric. It means: requiring or exhibiting knowledge that is restricted to a small group. The people who understand and use the word esoteric would most likely qualify as a somewhat small group. And, in a similarly laughable (but inaudibly laughable) way, using the word detritus to say trash to look good is amusing to say the least.

Of course I may be reading into this too much. Maybe the author uses the word detritus in his everyday speech. In fact, maybe everyone does. Maybe I'm the dumb one...or just jaded. Cue that mediocre Aerosmith song.

This was apparently on the same sidewalk as the previous picture:I almost got mad at whoever wrote it. Don't tell everyone where the factory is!

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Hello person who is reading this. I bet you don't get a personal "hello" every time you read a blog. But that's because this is a different kind of blog, and you're a different kind of person. Most likely the kind that I do not know. Or maybe I know you, but only vaguely. Or maybe I know someone who looks like you, but we'll probably never know that because you're reading this and I'm not actually talking to you in person. And don't think it's going to happen on skype either.

So back to you.

What do you think of this?:You're welcome. And it's not even Christmas.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Well, some people seem to think so anyway. And, I guess I fall into the category of "some people". But something that makes English so interesting is that it is a living language. It lives in the same way Frankenstein's monster does/did/I don't know if he's still alive. I say that because of how much it is driven by popular culture, vernacular, and is in essence a flowing amalgam of bits and pieces from many other languages and cultures beyond merely those of the British isles and places that were at once part of the British Empire. Ok, let's get to the point.

The word CUTE has become in a way, it's own sub-language. It's versatility is frighteningly unoriginal:

Here is the way in which it was at one point, and may sometimes still be used:

- That baby/puppy/halloween outfit* is CUTE.

*all terms can also be exchanged for butterfly wallpaper, floral arrangements, kittens, etc.

However, here is the way in which it is now used:

- He's CUTE. - (in reference to a boy/man - who should in fact never be considered cute, unless he looks like a puppy holding a floral arrangement while wearing a children's halloween costume - and in that case I believe the correct terminology would be FREAK. A man/boy used to be called attractive, handsome, good-looking, etc., but now, he has unfortunately been relegated to puppy status. If that were all, then no worries, but cute is a universal coverall as we shall see)

- That's so CUTE! - (when referring to any object that has a favorable color scheme or design, when one could just say, "I love those colors, such and such compliments the other, and/or that is a clever or creative way to use yellow and blue/pink and mint green/etc. and etc.)

- Oh what a CUTE sign! - (When the sign is actually not cute at all, bearing no resemblance to a newborn baby, puppy, and containing nothing resembling a kitten with a bib and pacifier. Most often the sign contains a clever turn of phrase, is witty, or is just cleverly being offensive while also subtly attempting to be innocuous)

So there you have it. Is there a remedy for this generic way of describing things. Yes. Will anyone really make any concerted effort to come up with a more in depth way of evaluating their sentiments about people, places, and things that will avoid the temptation of cute's simplicity? Probably not dude. I mean dude. Really dude? Dude.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Everyone has at one time or another had it happen. Maybe you're sitting at a movie theater. Perhaps at a nice restaurant. Maybe you're in a pew at church. Then, there's that all too familiar pins and needles feeling in your foot, then it creeps up your leg. You try to shake it so that it wakes up. People start to give you weird looks. Some people smirk, others wink. You're unwittingly sending mixed messages. Your foot is asleep.

Well finally, after years of painstaking research, Dr. Ivan Malcomb claims that sleeping feet actually dream. His project began as a simple question from a neighbor while they were playing scrabble and drinking a supposedly non-alcoholic beverage.

"Linda said to me, 'Ivan, my foot's asleep. I hate when this happens. It's probably dreaming of comfortable but stylish shoes, or a stroll on a tropical beach somewhere no doubt. I mean right?' Of course, she was probably just being silly, but a lightning bolt struck my brain at that moment. I had an apostrophe...er...epiphany."

For the next 5 years Dr. Malcomb invited people over to his house to play scrabble, trying myriad techniques to lull their feet into a deep sleep; a sleep he calls RTM. Rapid Toe Movement, similar to its cousin REM - Rapid Eye Movement - occurs when the foot has reached its dream state.

"I tried to be really sedate and boring for 5 years. My wife told me I didn't have to try, but I did anyway. We sat around watching reruns of Mr. Rogers and Baywatch, and playing scrabble, hangman, and team solitaire. Yes, team solitaire," said Dr. Malcomb.

Once a subject's foot entered RTM, he strapped electrodes along its "Neo-Pedal Cortex" on the arch of the foot, and measured the dream activity. After two years of mapping dream activity, Ivan found that he could accurately map the energy, and even what each foot was dreaming.

Dr. Malcomb elaborated, "If the energy is concentrated in the ball of the foot with slow radiating impulses to the toes, the most likely dreams are of little piggies, pedicures, and weird foot-related toe-sucking nightmares. If the energy is along the main corridor of the Neo-Pedal Cortex, then the dreams are more intricate and tend to be about trendy shoe styles, glamor, or massages."

While his research maybe controversial, and his methods unorthodox, Dr. Ivan Malcomb remains adamant that his conclusions are correct.

"I stand by work one hundred percent. I think it will change the world and the way we think about feet, and sleep. My next study will be assessing dreams in other appendages like the arm, the leg, or the...I guess that's it."

So even if you are bothered by your foot's narcolepsy, consider your foot. It might actually enjoy sleeping. Instead of hitting your sleeping foot against a table leg on nervously stamping the floor, perhaps next time you should just rock back and forth gently, sing a sweet lullaby and give your foot a break.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

So a lot of people ask me: "How did you become the fastest man in the world?"

My response is simple. Practice.

But when I say "practice", I don't mean "practice running", or "practice running fast". No. I mean "practice being the fastest man in the world". Start from there. You have to be it before you're it. Got me?Here are some other pointers if you hope to one day become a thousandth as fast as me:

1. Outrun and then chase down an antelope, and devour it.2. Outrun and then chase down an antelope that a cheetah is already chasing, then devour the antelope in front of the cheetah and then devour him if he doesn't like it.3. Get some colored rocks and a slingshot.4. Start running as you hear the snap of the slingshot and beat the rocks to whatever target you've shot them at. Colored rocks make it more fun.5. Get to know some people at NASA, and then race the space shuttle (Bring a cape so you can keep chasing it while you are flying in the upper stratosphere...if you haven't caught it by the time it escapes earth's orbit, you've lost, and you'll never be as fast as me).

This is the last guy I beat. Look, he can't even chase down a ring. And he needs to hold the word 'flash' in his hand to remind himself of the shell of a superhero that he now is thanks to me.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

When I went to get the paper this morning I saw my neighbor Ted. Typical right? Except he was squatting and hunched over something by my garbage cans. When I yelled "Hello Ted", as is my custom, he glared at me and made a hissing noise. I think he's probably a zombie. He was either eating a rotten bag of potatoes or a small child. I don't know how any of that got in my garbage. I take solace in the fact that at least he's not a raccoon. My dog Trevor got bitten by a couple raccoons last week. Doctors told me he has rabies. I know better. Trevor is now a raccoon zombie. I'm pretty sure both he and my neighbor are plotting to eat me. And then steal my flat screen TV.

Friday, July 23, 2010

So Trevor (my dog) kept me up last night. He kept barking at the corner of the room. My guess is he saw the invisible psycho clown that has been trying to get me for years. Dogs for some reason can always see invisible things. It's like a sixth sense. Except, I don't know if they only have five to begin with. I pretty sure Trevor has 15. One of them I now know is sensing invisible psycho clowns. Others are more obvious. Like knowing whether or not an animal or object is worth a hump. I bet you wish you had a dog named Trevor.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Hi. My name is Bill. I live at 123 Fake Street. I have a dog named Trevor. I own a farm and sell oats to the Chinese. They love whole grains. Just like my mother in law. Tough luck for her though; she was told by her doctor last week that she can't have gluten, whole grains, or anything that resembles Keanu Reeves. Her doctor is a former hippy who still lives in a commune and runs a meth lab with her "mermaid" friends. Makes me glad mermaids still have friends. My sister and one of her good friends wish they were mermaids. I guess that's all well and good, until you realize you're in essence a paraplegic. But it's a romantic notion, if you don't mind being hit on by the occasional walrus, manatee, or on an off day, a narwhal.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

I happen to love polite appliances. Refrigerators that turn the light on for you. Microwaves that quietly beep when they finish warming your food (quietly mind you), and of course computers that ask "Are you sure you want to shut down your computer now?"

It's this last one that I am going to discuss. Couple it with firefox asking if I want to close the application even with....what's that?....two or more tabs open?!! (gasp)...and I think it's understandably become too polite.

In my ideal world people would shut their computers down and that would be the end of it. If I select "shut down" from the menu, I would expect the computer to fall in line. But no. It's like a little kid who is told to get out of the pool and says "why?". Or any little kid asking "why?" just because they don't want to do whatever you're asking, or just want to be a real life anamaniac. In this same ideal world people would return phone calls and emails promptly, people would go when the light is green, and everyone would at least drive the speed limit, if not 5 to 10 mph over it. In this same world firefox would close with or without multiple tabs being open, similar to a bar where multiple clients have running tabs.

But this world is not the world of today. No, we live in a world where movie tickets cost $11 and still suck just as much as when they cost $6.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Most women called you gross, sketchy, or reacted with comments like: "Is that a mustache? Shave it off. Shave it now."

But I didn't listen to them. No, you were like a man child who needed to be shown off at Little League. You performed most ably. In fact, you outperformed three number one seeded NCAA basketball teams. You were my Marchstache Madness winner.

But, we have parted ways. You have disappeared down the metal pipes underneath my sink. Some say it is for the best. I guess the porno industry just wasn't for me or you.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

As some of you know, every March they (they being colleges that are decent at basketball) play a tournament called March Madness. But, as interesting and life-changing as that can be, this March there is a different event for men and sports enthusiasts alike. It is called....

MARCHSTACHE MADNESS.

This is the proposition:

Grow a mustache this month. Then, after galavanting, schmoozing, and having the greatest time of your life, send in a picture to the facebook event (Side note: join it first).

Self-Aggrandizing Photo

Michael Powers

About the Author

Michael Powers is a fairly cultured American with an eye for seriousness, but willing to entertain the occasional dabble into the surreal and the inane. His writing focuses on news, random stories, politics, and social issues with his own brand of cynicism, but always with a humorous or optimistic outlook.